Somewhere east of Omaha
beneath a garden carved in stone
things from lost millennia
with empty sockets, yellow bones
still live in dreams we cannot share
play ancient and forgotten games
that taunt us, catch us if we dare
to dance across their hallowed planes.
I bid you now, and hear me well:
tread not upon the tricksters’ beds;
don’t give them fodder for the spell
yet swirling through their shattered heads.